2003
------
Zibby started at giant anthills whizzing by him as he reclined on his comfy coach seat. Thoughts whizzed through his head, almost as quickly as those beautifully constructed anthills did. He was worried. For weeks, he had been trying to book an appointment for a visa interview in Lagos, without success. He was now seven weeks away from the start of his course at King's College London. Telephone contact was required, but the Commission's number was always busy; 8am, 9am, 10am, it didn't matter. The number remained busy until it closed at noon. Zibby was confident of getting the visa, but he was increasingly worried that he might not get the interview on time.
After lamenting to a few friends, some pointed him in the direction of Abuja, Nigeria's capital city located a 10-hour ride away from Lagos. Apparently, there were less people attending visa interviews there, and no previous appointment was necessary! How hard could it be?
The first day he arrived at the British High Commission (BHC) was a Friday. He was informed that interviews were not given on Fridays, but that he should return the next week, Monday to Thursday, between 9 and 12 noon. That sounded easy enough. After what felt like a very long weekend, Zibby proceeded to the BHC on Monday, at 10 am. He could hear the hum of voices before he saw the crowd. A sea of heads stretched from the embassy gates to the pavement, spilling over slightly unto the street. As his lips parted involuntarily, he thought:
What have I let myself in for?
He promptly left, resolving to return earlier the next day. Tuesday was no better, despite the fact that Zibby showed up at 7am. The crowds were there, as if they had slept there all night. A few enquiries confirmed that they had. This was when Zibby took temporary leave of his senses. Seeing his place at King's College evaporating before his eyes, Zibby resolved to return that night at midnight, to camp out with his fellow insane.
Midnight, at the British High Commission. Seeing only 5 people waiting, Zibby's heartbeat increased. Finally, he could be at the top of the queue! He would get in by morning, have his interview, and visa in hand would return to Lagos the next day! If only things had been that simple.
By 1am, there were about 20 people at the gates, and they had formed a rough queue. Zibby was 6th in line, and was still feeling very pleased with himself. This was when the police arrived. Swooping down on the visa-seeking gang as if clearing a riotous mob, the men in black chased all 20 people from the BHC gates, brandishing guns and horse-tail whips. Zibby's eyes were wide with terror as he ran, though he noticed that the young men running beside him were laughing.
Does this happen all the time?
After about an hour of hanging around, the queue began to reform! Zibby was obliged to join them, for obvious reasons. Sure enough, by 4am, out came the dependable police men. This time, there were over a hundred people there, and their escape could best be described as a stampede. A woman went down in front of Zibby, and in his attempt to avoid her, he lost his balance. Crashing to the rough concrete floor, he scraped several centimetres of skin off his knee, ripping his black formal trousers in the process, before rolling over and landing heavily on his back. Lying flat on the ground and looking up at the serene stars as 3 young men jumped over him, Zibby winced and thought:
Has it come to this?
He got up quickly and limped away to escape an oncoming whip-wielding law enforcer. His heart was heavy, but he was determined to see this embarrassing situation through. By 8am, he had lost count of the people gathered, but this time, he was near the front. Shielding his face from the annoying tourist who was taking photos of them, he waited.
At 9am, the doors opened and it seemed like it would only be a matter of time before the pain would end. 3 hours later, with only 7 people left in front of him, the BHC gate closed for the day. They were to return tomorrow; no queue positions were saved and it would be a matter of first come, first served.
Zibby walked dejectedly to a nearby shop and bought some tissue paper to daub his bleeding knee. By the next morning, with his bags packed, he returned, visa-less, to Lagos.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Missing the Obvious
2003
------
After his first few weeks in London, Zibby got in touch with some old school friends who had lived in the city for years. They all arranged to meet up in the city centre one night. Zibby carefully took down the directions to Leicester square, and after a few words to his Aunty, stepped out in his first attempt to use the public transport system on his own.
The first part seemed easy. Get on a bus, and get to Hendon Central. He jumped on the bus, and off it went. Five troubling minutes later, Zibby realized that there were no announcements telling him which station was which! He was in shock. He had been so impressed the tube system's regular announcements, and the clear labelling and signposting of all the stations. How do they expect visitors to know what to do? He thought. With some degree of foresight he had asked cousin Ama what he should look out for as a landmark near the station, but even that did not seem to help him. Thirty minutes later, he was at the last stop for his bus, Brent Cross shopping centre. He had obviously passed Hendon Central without noticing.
Zibby got of the bus and made his way resolutely to the other side, to try again. As they headed off back in the direction of home, he remembered the way bus conductors in Lagos would yell out the name of every bus stop as they approached it, checking for the standard response, "owa!" which would mean that someone needed to get off. That's what this bus is missing, he thought. A proper Lagos-style conductor!
This time, he asked a few people on the bus who were kind enough to tell him when to get off for the station. Stepping out of the bus, he stood in one spot and looked around him, but still could not locate anything that looked like a train station. He approached a group of ladies and asked politely, "Excuse me, could you please tell me where Hendon Central is?" They turned and looked at him, and then at each other. "What?" asked one. "I'm looking for Hendon Central" repeated Zibby. A couple of the girls giggled. "What have you been smoking?" asked another, as they moved away from him.
As they disappeared into the distance, Zibby realised that he was standing under a massive HENDON CENTRAL sign. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and walked into the building. Sure enough, the ticket barriers were round the corner.
Approaching the barriers, he saw people tapping some cards on the top the ticket barriers and walking through, so he confidently did the same with his travel card. Nothing happened. With a small queue building up behind him, he tapped and tapped, but the barriers refused to open. An attendant came over to him, took his paper ticket from him, and put it through a lower slot on the ticket gate. Still nothing happened. Zibby heard impatient shuffling behind him.
"Please take your ticket." said the patient but clearly amused attendant.
"Where is it?" asked Zibby, flustered by his mounting sense of embarassment. As he spoke, he spotted the ticket sticking out yet another slot on the top surface of the barrier. He picked it up and the gates opened. "Thanks!" he said, trying to laugh off his feelings of awkwardness.
He would later learn the difference between oyster cards - which you tap on the reader to open the gates, and the paper tickets such as that which he held on that day.
After an enjoyable time out with his friend, Zibby returned home quite late, but happy. As he walked up the brightly-lit road to the front door, he thought: Many times, the obvious is only obvious because you're familiar with it. He resolved within himself to be more patient with those who displayed ignorance of things he thought were obvious.
------
After his first few weeks in London, Zibby got in touch with some old school friends who had lived in the city for years. They all arranged to meet up in the city centre one night. Zibby carefully took down the directions to Leicester square, and after a few words to his Aunty, stepped out in his first attempt to use the public transport system on his own.
The first part seemed easy. Get on a bus, and get to Hendon Central. He jumped on the bus, and off it went. Five troubling minutes later, Zibby realized that there were no announcements telling him which station was which! He was in shock. He had been so impressed the tube system's regular announcements, and the clear labelling and signposting of all the stations. How do they expect visitors to know what to do? He thought. With some degree of foresight he had asked cousin Ama what he should look out for as a landmark near the station, but even that did not seem to help him. Thirty minutes later, he was at the last stop for his bus, Brent Cross shopping centre. He had obviously passed Hendon Central without noticing.
Zibby got of the bus and made his way resolutely to the other side, to try again. As they headed off back in the direction of home, he remembered the way bus conductors in Lagos would yell out the name of every bus stop as they approached it, checking for the standard response, "owa!" which would mean that someone needed to get off. That's what this bus is missing, he thought. A proper Lagos-style conductor!
This time, he asked a few people on the bus who were kind enough to tell him when to get off for the station. Stepping out of the bus, he stood in one spot and looked around him, but still could not locate anything that looked like a train station. He approached a group of ladies and asked politely, "Excuse me, could you please tell me where Hendon Central is?" They turned and looked at him, and then at each other. "What?" asked one. "I'm looking for Hendon Central" repeated Zibby. A couple of the girls giggled. "What have you been smoking?" asked another, as they moved away from him.
As they disappeared into the distance, Zibby realised that he was standing under a massive HENDON CENTRAL sign. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and walked into the building. Sure enough, the ticket barriers were round the corner.
Approaching the barriers, he saw people tapping some cards on the top the ticket barriers and walking through, so he confidently did the same with his travel card. Nothing happened. With a small queue building up behind him, he tapped and tapped, but the barriers refused to open. An attendant came over to him, took his paper ticket from him, and put it through a lower slot on the ticket gate. Still nothing happened. Zibby heard impatient shuffling behind him.
"Please take your ticket." said the patient but clearly amused attendant.
"Where is it?" asked Zibby, flustered by his mounting sense of embarassment. As he spoke, he spotted the ticket sticking out yet another slot on the top surface of the barrier. He picked it up and the gates opened. "Thanks!" he said, trying to laugh off his feelings of awkwardness.
He would later learn the difference between oyster cards - which you tap on the reader to open the gates, and the paper tickets such as that which he held on that day.
After an enjoyable time out with his friend, Zibby returned home quite late, but happy. As he walked up the brightly-lit road to the front door, he thought: Many times, the obvious is only obvious because you're familiar with it. He resolved within himself to be more patient with those who displayed ignorance of things he thought were obvious.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Checkpoint Exploitation
1998
------
Zibby cruised down University Road in his Peugeot 305, the sun shining brightly through the windows causing narrow streams of sweat to roll down his back. He had inherited the car from his mum and though it was pretty old, he was proud of it. His friends called it ‘the jeep’, which was short for ‘jalopy’ – a wreck. He, and it, bore the name proudly.
He loved driving. He loved the freedom of spinning round the streets of Lagos without having to run after moving buses with 50,000 other people. However, there was one striking disadvantage of being mobile in this way. The policemen.
As Zibby approached the popular keke roundabout, he noticed 3 men in black lurking by the side of the road, their long ancient-looking guns at the ready.
Not me. Come on… not me… not today…
One of the policemen stepped ever so slightly onto the road and motioned for Zibby to stop. He considered speeding past, but quickly checked that risky thought. He pulled over to the right, a few seconds before the impromptu checkpoint.
“Good afternoon officer!” he said, cheerily.
The policeman peered into the jeep, expecting a standard transaction to occur. Five seconds passed, in which Zibby simply stared at the officer, and he stared back. The man frowned. This was clearly going to be a difficult customer.
“Your licence and particulars!” the officer barked.
Zibby flicked open the glove compartment and produced the vehicle’s papers. The policeman examined them for longer than he needed to, and then said, “Licence nko?”
Zibby swallowed hard.
“Oga, I’m sorry, I forgot it at home.” Zibby was telling the truth. “I live just 10 minutes away and rushed out to do a few things nearby.”
The officer knew he had the upper hand. If he was ever going to extract a ‘tip’ from this one, now was the time.
“Park well!” he barked.
Zibby had left his engine running, and once more contemplated flooring the accelerator. Instead, he brought the car fully into the nearby parking area and turned off his engine. Why did he forget that pesky licence?!
Now, Zibby knew the law well. He was studying Law at the University of Lagos. He was aware that he had a number of days in which to produce a valid licence, and that it was no crime for him to drive without being in physical possession of one. He calmly opened his door and stepped out.
“Oga, please, I’m just trying to get home. I live 10 minutes away.”
“Is that why you forgot your licence?”
Zibby sighed. He knew what the officer really wanted, but was not willing to part with one kobo. He did not intend to fuel the culture of checkpoint exploitation.
“You know this is a very serious offence?” the officer continued.
Actually, I know it’s not. Zibby thought. Then, rather unwisely, said aloud “Doesn’t the law say…”
“Oh?! You want to quote law for me?” shrieked the policeman. “Sule! Sule!” His colleague slowly made his way towards the pair of them. “Sule, this one thinks he’s a lawyer!”
“I am a law student, actually” said Zibby. He still hadn’t learned when to shut up.
“Then we will show you what we do to law students!” responded the man in black sharply. “Sule, enter the front! Oya, law student, enter your car!”
“Officer, sorry, please…”
“You can’t beg the corpse after the head has been cut off!” shouted the incensed man.
What does that even mean? thought Zibby, before succumbing to a rising sense of panic. He quickly weighed up the options in his mind. He could enter the car with a decidedly unfriendly-looking Sule, and find himself escorted to a police station where an uncertain fate would await him. Alternatively, he could make a dash for his car, and risk being shot down and tagged as an ‘escaping armed robber’. Or…
“Have a good day sir! Don’t forget your licence again!” The man in black grinned and saluted with one hand, a twenty naira note stuffed securely into his trouser pocket.
Zibby looked in his rear mirror, as he drove off, muttering angrily to himself.
I can’t take much more of this...
------
Zibby cruised down University Road in his Peugeot 305, the sun shining brightly through the windows causing narrow streams of sweat to roll down his back. He had inherited the car from his mum and though it was pretty old, he was proud of it. His friends called it ‘the jeep’, which was short for ‘jalopy’ – a wreck. He, and it, bore the name proudly.
He loved driving. He loved the freedom of spinning round the streets of Lagos without having to run after moving buses with 50,000 other people. However, there was one striking disadvantage of being mobile in this way. The policemen.
As Zibby approached the popular keke roundabout, he noticed 3 men in black lurking by the side of the road, their long ancient-looking guns at the ready.
Not me. Come on… not me… not today…
One of the policemen stepped ever so slightly onto the road and motioned for Zibby to stop. He considered speeding past, but quickly checked that risky thought. He pulled over to the right, a few seconds before the impromptu checkpoint.
“Good afternoon officer!” he said, cheerily.
The policeman peered into the jeep, expecting a standard transaction to occur. Five seconds passed, in which Zibby simply stared at the officer, and he stared back. The man frowned. This was clearly going to be a difficult customer.
“Your licence and particulars!” the officer barked.
Zibby flicked open the glove compartment and produced the vehicle’s papers. The policeman examined them for longer than he needed to, and then said, “Licence nko?”
Zibby swallowed hard.
“Oga, I’m sorry, I forgot it at home.” Zibby was telling the truth. “I live just 10 minutes away and rushed out to do a few things nearby.”
The officer knew he had the upper hand. If he was ever going to extract a ‘tip’ from this one, now was the time.
“Park well!” he barked.
Zibby had left his engine running, and once more contemplated flooring the accelerator. Instead, he brought the car fully into the nearby parking area and turned off his engine. Why did he forget that pesky licence?!
Now, Zibby knew the law well. He was studying Law at the University of Lagos. He was aware that he had a number of days in which to produce a valid licence, and that it was no crime for him to drive without being in physical possession of one. He calmly opened his door and stepped out.
“Oga, please, I’m just trying to get home. I live 10 minutes away.”
“Is that why you forgot your licence?”
Zibby sighed. He knew what the officer really wanted, but was not willing to part with one kobo. He did not intend to fuel the culture of checkpoint exploitation.
“You know this is a very serious offence?” the officer continued.
Actually, I know it’s not. Zibby thought. Then, rather unwisely, said aloud “Doesn’t the law say…”
“Oh?! You want to quote law for me?” shrieked the policeman. “Sule! Sule!” His colleague slowly made his way towards the pair of them. “Sule, this one thinks he’s a lawyer!”
“I am a law student, actually” said Zibby. He still hadn’t learned when to shut up.
“Then we will show you what we do to law students!” responded the man in black sharply. “Sule, enter the front! Oya, law student, enter your car!”
“Officer, sorry, please…”
“You can’t beg the corpse after the head has been cut off!” shouted the incensed man.
What does that even mean? thought Zibby, before succumbing to a rising sense of panic. He quickly weighed up the options in his mind. He could enter the car with a decidedly unfriendly-looking Sule, and find himself escorted to a police station where an uncertain fate would await him. Alternatively, he could make a dash for his car, and risk being shot down and tagged as an ‘escaping armed robber’. Or…
“Have a good day sir! Don’t forget your licence again!” The man in black grinned and saluted with one hand, a twenty naira note stuffed securely into his trouser pocket.
Zibby looked in his rear mirror, as he drove off, muttering angrily to himself.
I can’t take much more of this...
Saturday, 27 June 2009
A Timely Intervention
2004
-----
The Nobu civil war raged and raged for longer than it should have. As with all wars, there were no real winners. It could all have gone on for ever, as some of these things unfortunately do, but for the timely intervention of the grand old man - Grandfather Nobuka.
In his younger days, Grandfather Nobuka spent half his time in London, a quarter in Spain and the rest of his time in the eastern parts of Nigeria. He was a writer, businessman and intellectual, and to Zibby's great pride, an active participant in the fight for Nigerian independence. He was a man with great pride in his country and his culture, and by all accounts, a complete gentleman.
The old man had come to London for a brief holiday, and chose to stay (as was his regular custom) in the comfort of the vast Nobu house. It was only 24 hours later that he noticed that all was not well within those freshly-painted cream-coloured walls.
Grandfather Nobuka acted swiftly. He called everyone together, including cousin Ama, who had made a point of visiting the house to see him. Zibby initially stayed up in his room, burying his head in an Intellectual Property Law textbook. He was summoned by one of the younger cousins, and entered the large sitting-room to Grandfather Nobuka's quizzical frown.
"Zibby, didn't you hear me call?"
"Sorry Grandfather."
"Did I not call a family meeting?"
"You did Grandfather."
"And are you not one of the family?"
"Yes Grandfather, I am."
Grandfather Nobuka's eyes followed Zibby as he moved towards the edge of the room and sat down.
He began a speech - oh how he loved his speeches. He spoke endlessly of the broomstick which was easily broken on its own, but was unbreakable as part of a broom. He quoted the Bible, specifically the part which says that a house divided against itself can not stand, and then preached a full sermon on the topic. He even lectured them on the fight for Nigerian independence and the Nigerian civil war, showing how discord between brothers could bring about tragedy, death and destruction.
Two hours and ten long minutes later, the whole family was willing to kiss and make up just to end the speech. Grandfather Nobuka asked everyone to break away into sub-groups and talk more candidly, Zibby included, about their grievances, perceptions and suggested solutions. By the time the day was done, everyone decided to start on a fresh page and call it a new day for the Nobu household. The clan trooped to the sitting room to thank Grandfather Nobuka for his timely intervention, but found him slumped in a chair, head back, mouth slightly open, snoring gently. They all smiled and chuckled quietly, as Aunty woke him up and escorted him upstairs for his afternoon nap.
Things were much better at home from that day forward, for Zibby, Ama and everyone else. When he walked out the door the next morning, Zibby was filled with a new hope, a fresh zest for life and the calming assurance that he was no longer alone. Whatever challenges this new life would throw at him, Zibby was sure his family would be there to support him.
-----
The Nobu civil war raged and raged for longer than it should have. As with all wars, there were no real winners. It could all have gone on for ever, as some of these things unfortunately do, but for the timely intervention of the grand old man - Grandfather Nobuka.
In his younger days, Grandfather Nobuka spent half his time in London, a quarter in Spain and the rest of his time in the eastern parts of Nigeria. He was a writer, businessman and intellectual, and to Zibby's great pride, an active participant in the fight for Nigerian independence. He was a man with great pride in his country and his culture, and by all accounts, a complete gentleman.
The old man had come to London for a brief holiday, and chose to stay (as was his regular custom) in the comfort of the vast Nobu house. It was only 24 hours later that he noticed that all was not well within those freshly-painted cream-coloured walls.
Grandfather Nobuka acted swiftly. He called everyone together, including cousin Ama, who had made a point of visiting the house to see him. Zibby initially stayed up in his room, burying his head in an Intellectual Property Law textbook. He was summoned by one of the younger cousins, and entered the large sitting-room to Grandfather Nobuka's quizzical frown.
"Zibby, didn't you hear me call?"
"Sorry Grandfather."
"Did I not call a family meeting?"
"You did Grandfather."
"And are you not one of the family?"
"Yes Grandfather, I am."
Grandfather Nobuka's eyes followed Zibby as he moved towards the edge of the room and sat down.
He began a speech - oh how he loved his speeches. He spoke endlessly of the broomstick which was easily broken on its own, but was unbreakable as part of a broom. He quoted the Bible, specifically the part which says that a house divided against itself can not stand, and then preached a full sermon on the topic. He even lectured them on the fight for Nigerian independence and the Nigerian civil war, showing how discord between brothers could bring about tragedy, death and destruction.
Two hours and ten long minutes later, the whole family was willing to kiss and make up just to end the speech. Grandfather Nobuka asked everyone to break away into sub-groups and talk more candidly, Zibby included, about their grievances, perceptions and suggested solutions. By the time the day was done, everyone decided to start on a fresh page and call it a new day for the Nobu household. The clan trooped to the sitting room to thank Grandfather Nobuka for his timely intervention, but found him slumped in a chair, head back, mouth slightly open, snoring gently. They all smiled and chuckled quietly, as Aunty woke him up and escorted him upstairs for his afternoon nap.
Things were much better at home from that day forward, for Zibby, Ama and everyone else. When he walked out the door the next morning, Zibby was filled with a new hope, a fresh zest for life and the calming assurance that he was no longer alone. Whatever challenges this new life would throw at him, Zibby was sure his family would be there to support him.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
A Window to the Future
1992 & 1995 (12 & 15 years old)
"Your cousin Chema's getting married!"
Chibby's mum made the announcement one bright Saturday morning in 1992, as Zibby and his brother trudged downstairs for breakfast. They let out squeals of delight.
"Wow!" "Really?!" "When?" "Who?!" "How exciting!"
They liked weddings, you see, particularly weddings of close relatives. The party was always good, the food even better, and you got to see loads of people you hadn't seen in a while.
"Her fiancé’s a doctor in America" their mum said, "The wedding will take place there."
"Awwwww" they both moaned. Ah, well, there would be others.
It turned out that cousin Chema had met this dashing young doctor while on holiday in California a couple of years earlier and fallen madly in love. They had maintained their relationship through letters and phone calls, and now the decision had been taken for Chema to move out to America to be with him.
She was based in the east of Nigeria and in those days, the only place to make visa applications was in Lagos. Consequently, Chema came to stay with Zibby's family for about a month, while going through the necessary applications. Zibby was pretty fond of his cousin, so was pleased she was coming to stay. Despite the 10-year difference between them, she would chat frequently with him about mundane things that he was interested in, from Fraggle rock to world politics! On one particular afternoon, about one week before she was due to travel, he decided to discuss her future plans.
"Chema, are you excited about going to live in America?"
"I'm excited about going to be with Tunde" she grinned.
Zibby rolled his eyes and smiled. "Of course you are, but aren't you going to miss your family?"
"We can always visit," she said, "it's not as if I'm going away forever."
"But Chema," he said, "Do you worry that you might become a second-class citizen in another man's country?"
Chema attempted a light-hearted laughed. "I don't believe in all that" she said, not very convincingly. "You know what," she said, "ask me these questions again in a few years."
"Okay," said Zibby, and then went on to discuss his views on Saddam Hussein, Bill Clinton and the recent Gulf War.
Three years and two beautiful kids later, Chema came to Lagos to visit with her young family. They all had a good time discussing her adventures over the last three years and doting over the two young ones. After one hearty lunch, Zibby drew the short straw and was relegated to washing up in the kitchen. Chema came in to help him tidy up, and he grabbed his chance to ask his questions.
"So, has it been worth it?"
"What?" Chema looked at Zibby, a confused look on her face.
"How has it really been, living in America? Has it been worth it? Would you recommend it to others?"
"Ah," Chema smiled now, recalling their little conversation three years earlier. "it's been good."
Zibby raised an eyebrow. He would not be satisfied with a simple 'it's been good!'
"Chema!" he whined. His not-so-little face could still scrunch up into his trademark scowl.
Chema giggled and flicked his nose. "Okay, okay, so it's not the easiest life in the world" she laughed, "and yes, sometimes you do feel like you're a second class citizen in another man's country, but that's only sometimes."
"But would you recommend it?"
"Let's put it this way," said Chema, "if you have a good job in Nigeria and prospects, then stay. Though you can make a good life abroad and there are lots of fringe benefits, you'll work very hard to sustain them." She paused. "Very, very, hard. There's no place like home."
Zibby nodded. It wasn't the answer he'd been expecting, but it was clearly a thoughtful and honest one. They were both silent for a moment until Chema poke him and said, "Hey, I'd forgotten how slow you are at washing plates!" They both laughed and finished up quickly, returning to the happy banter in the living room.
Zibby did his best to keep in touch with his cousin. Observing her was like looking through a window into what his life could become. In a couple of years, however, she had gone so deep into her work and family that he was lucky to hear from her at least once a year.
It only took a few years for Zibby to be sure that he had no intention of following his cousin’s advice.
"Your cousin Chema's getting married!"
Chibby's mum made the announcement one bright Saturday morning in 1992, as Zibby and his brother trudged downstairs for breakfast. They let out squeals of delight.
"Wow!" "Really?!" "When?" "Who?!" "How exciting!"
They liked weddings, you see, particularly weddings of close relatives. The party was always good, the food even better, and you got to see loads of people you hadn't seen in a while.
"Her fiancé’s a doctor in America" their mum said, "The wedding will take place there."
"Awwwww" they both moaned. Ah, well, there would be others.
It turned out that cousin Chema had met this dashing young doctor while on holiday in California a couple of years earlier and fallen madly in love. They had maintained their relationship through letters and phone calls, and now the decision had been taken for Chema to move out to America to be with him.
She was based in the east of Nigeria and in those days, the only place to make visa applications was in Lagos. Consequently, Chema came to stay with Zibby's family for about a month, while going through the necessary applications. Zibby was pretty fond of his cousin, so was pleased she was coming to stay. Despite the 10-year difference between them, she would chat frequently with him about mundane things that he was interested in, from Fraggle rock to world politics! On one particular afternoon, about one week before she was due to travel, he decided to discuss her future plans.
"Chema, are you excited about going to live in America?"
"I'm excited about going to be with Tunde" she grinned.
Zibby rolled his eyes and smiled. "Of course you are, but aren't you going to miss your family?"
"We can always visit," she said, "it's not as if I'm going away forever."
"But Chema," he said, "Do you worry that you might become a second-class citizen in another man's country?"
Chema attempted a light-hearted laughed. "I don't believe in all that" she said, not very convincingly. "You know what," she said, "ask me these questions again in a few years."
"Okay," said Zibby, and then went on to discuss his views on Saddam Hussein, Bill Clinton and the recent Gulf War.
Three years and two beautiful kids later, Chema came to Lagos to visit with her young family. They all had a good time discussing her adventures over the last three years and doting over the two young ones. After one hearty lunch, Zibby drew the short straw and was relegated to washing up in the kitchen. Chema came in to help him tidy up, and he grabbed his chance to ask his questions.
"So, has it been worth it?"
"What?" Chema looked at Zibby, a confused look on her face.
"How has it really been, living in America? Has it been worth it? Would you recommend it to others?"
"Ah," Chema smiled now, recalling their little conversation three years earlier. "it's been good."
Zibby raised an eyebrow. He would not be satisfied with a simple 'it's been good!'
"Chema!" he whined. His not-so-little face could still scrunch up into his trademark scowl.
Chema giggled and flicked his nose. "Okay, okay, so it's not the easiest life in the world" she laughed, "and yes, sometimes you do feel like you're a second class citizen in another man's country, but that's only sometimes."
"But would you recommend it?"
"Let's put it this way," said Chema, "if you have a good job in Nigeria and prospects, then stay. Though you can make a good life abroad and there are lots of fringe benefits, you'll work very hard to sustain them." She paused. "Very, very, hard. There's no place like home."
Zibby nodded. It wasn't the answer he'd been expecting, but it was clearly a thoughtful and honest one. They were both silent for a moment until Chema poke him and said, "Hey, I'd forgotten how slow you are at washing plates!" They both laughed and finished up quickly, returning to the happy banter in the living room.
Zibby did his best to keep in touch with his cousin. Observing her was like looking through a window into what his life could become. In a couple of years, however, she had gone so deep into her work and family that he was lucky to hear from her at least once a year.
It only took a few years for Zibby to be sure that he had no intention of following his cousin’s advice.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Civil War
2003 - 2004
Life with the Nobu clan was filled with its ups and downs for Zibby. He soon discovered that a significant cultural gap existed between him and his cousins, such that they were unable to interact for any extended period of time without their making fun of him for something or other. Initially, Ama joined in with the others, until it became clear that she and Zibby had more in common that the rest of the clan. Zibby later told Ama that he felt this was because she had spent more time in Nigeria than the others, a theory she ultimately accepted.
The Nobu cousins were not necessarily bad people – just people who thought their way was the only way, and any other way was wrong. If you did not come round to seeing things their way; they would frequently resort to social exclusion, ridicule and in-your-face rudeness to push their point. Ama did not always see things the way the rest of the clan did, and before long, Zibby realised that he had walked into the middle of a very unequal civil war. Camp Ama vs. Camp Nobu clan. The latter was comprised of Ama’s sisters, occasionally supported by Aunt Ify. Uncle Nobu remained blissfully unaware of the frequent clashes, his head buried in the Sunday paper or lost in following the progress of his beloved Newcastle United football club. Little Chuki, of course, was too young to pick a side.
When Zibby arrived, Ama was growing increasingly isolated by the internal rifts and perhaps saw in him the potential for a partner-in-arms at last. Or perhaps she saw him as a link to a simpler and happier time. Whatever the initial thoughts, Zibby and Ama got on like a house on fire, and would frequently join forces to oppose the imperialistic onslaught of Camp Nobu. That was at least until Ama decided that she’d had enough of the unending skirmishes and moved out to her own rented apartment. Zibby was devastated! Of course it meant peace and quiet for Ama, which was a good thing. The problem was, it put him squarely in the firing line of Camp Nobu, with no backup whatsoever.
The next few months would see Zibby retreating further and further into his room and into himself. With his faction now reduced in size to an army of one, he did not enjoy much civil interaction after returning from a day of lectures. Often, when sitting up at night and listening to his now-favourite BBC radio 4 droning in the background, he would wonder about all the cousins, friends and house-helps that had lived with his family over the last 20 years. Had he treated them well? Had he isolated them, insulted them or made them feel inferior at any time? His soul-searching would never yield definite answers. All Zibby knew was that there was a time he was celebrated. In his own household, in his own country, he was treated like a prince. How he longed for the dignity of those days.
Life with the Nobu clan was filled with its ups and downs for Zibby. He soon discovered that a significant cultural gap existed between him and his cousins, such that they were unable to interact for any extended period of time without their making fun of him for something or other. Initially, Ama joined in with the others, until it became clear that she and Zibby had more in common that the rest of the clan. Zibby later told Ama that he felt this was because she had spent more time in Nigeria than the others, a theory she ultimately accepted.
The Nobu cousins were not necessarily bad people – just people who thought their way was the only way, and any other way was wrong. If you did not come round to seeing things their way; they would frequently resort to social exclusion, ridicule and in-your-face rudeness to push their point. Ama did not always see things the way the rest of the clan did, and before long, Zibby realised that he had walked into the middle of a very unequal civil war. Camp Ama vs. Camp Nobu clan. The latter was comprised of Ama’s sisters, occasionally supported by Aunt Ify. Uncle Nobu remained blissfully unaware of the frequent clashes, his head buried in the Sunday paper or lost in following the progress of his beloved Newcastle United football club. Little Chuki, of course, was too young to pick a side.
When Zibby arrived, Ama was growing increasingly isolated by the internal rifts and perhaps saw in him the potential for a partner-in-arms at last. Or perhaps she saw him as a link to a simpler and happier time. Whatever the initial thoughts, Zibby and Ama got on like a house on fire, and would frequently join forces to oppose the imperialistic onslaught of Camp Nobu. That was at least until Ama decided that she’d had enough of the unending skirmishes and moved out to her own rented apartment. Zibby was devastated! Of course it meant peace and quiet for Ama, which was a good thing. The problem was, it put him squarely in the firing line of Camp Nobu, with no backup whatsoever.
The next few months would see Zibby retreating further and further into his room and into himself. With his faction now reduced in size to an army of one, he did not enjoy much civil interaction after returning from a day of lectures. Often, when sitting up at night and listening to his now-favourite BBC radio 4 droning in the background, he would wonder about all the cousins, friends and house-helps that had lived with his family over the last 20 years. Had he treated them well? Had he isolated them, insulted them or made them feel inferior at any time? His soul-searching would never yield definite answers. All Zibby knew was that there was a time he was celebrated. In his own household, in his own country, he was treated like a prince. How he longed for the dignity of those days.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Your Time Will Come
1989: 9-10 years old
"Ma, I'd really like to travel abroad one of these days." Zibby shifted the weight of the grocery bag he had insisted on carrying, as he walked home slowly beside his mum. They had gone shopping in the local market, which was conveniently located only 15 minutes from home.
Why didn't we drive?! He thought, as the bag began to make his tiny arms ache. He tried hard not to show his discomfort.
Noticing that he had not yet received an answer, he tried a different tactic.
"Kunle and his sister are going to London next holiday."
"That's nice" his mum replied, and smiled. "Your time will come."
Now, Zibby was no fool. He knew that it took several months of saving to be able to afford a foreign holiday, and that many in Nigeria could not do this even after saving for years! He was vaguely aware that the Naira was supposed to be a "weak currency" though he could not understand all the implications of that statement. However, he also knew that his family was not exactly deprived, and that his father travelled often enough. As far as Zibby was concerned, a foreign vacation for the kids was not getting its proper place in the family's list of priorities!
"Ow!"
"Is that bag too heavy?"
"No, I think a sand fly bit me."
Silence again.
"Jibade said his parents will send him abroad to study." Zibby was getting desperate.
"You're not going anywhere until you finish your university degree."
Zibby hoped his mum was joking. He looked up at her; she was still smiling, but he could see no sign of jesting in her eyes.
"But why?" he asked, "that's a long time!"
"We want you to know who you are," she replied, reaching down to relieve Zibby of the bag that was now making a light red mark on his little palm. "You need to know who you are."
Zibby was puzzled. "Ma, I don't understand."
"Many blacks in America and Britain have no identity. Even now, many are looking for their roots, tracing their footsteps back to Africa. They are not accepted there, and they don't feel they belong here. They are lost."
Slowly, Zibby began to understand.
"The same applies to those who leave here too early;" she continued, "They get confused, they become unsure of who they are and where they come from. They lose themselves. I know that one day you and your brother will go abroad; you may choose to return, or your may not. When that time comes, I want you to always remember that you are Nigerian first, no matter what other nationality you may acquire. I want you to always remember who you are."
From that day on, every time the strong desire came upon him to spread his wings and fly, every time he heard of another friend going on an international holiday, every time they drove a friend or family member to the airport, Zibby would remember his mother's words. He would smile quietly to himself, humming a happy tune, one thought etched in the forefront of his mind.
My time will come.
"Ma, I'd really like to travel abroad one of these days." Zibby shifted the weight of the grocery bag he had insisted on carrying, as he walked home slowly beside his mum. They had gone shopping in the local market, which was conveniently located only 15 minutes from home.
Why didn't we drive?! He thought, as the bag began to make his tiny arms ache. He tried hard not to show his discomfort.
Noticing that he had not yet received an answer, he tried a different tactic.
"Kunle and his sister are going to London next holiday."
"That's nice" his mum replied, and smiled. "Your time will come."
Now, Zibby was no fool. He knew that it took several months of saving to be able to afford a foreign holiday, and that many in Nigeria could not do this even after saving for years! He was vaguely aware that the Naira was supposed to be a "weak currency" though he could not understand all the implications of that statement. However, he also knew that his family was not exactly deprived, and that his father travelled often enough. As far as Zibby was concerned, a foreign vacation for the kids was not getting its proper place in the family's list of priorities!
"Ow!"
"Is that bag too heavy?"
"No, I think a sand fly bit me."
Silence again.
"Jibade said his parents will send him abroad to study." Zibby was getting desperate.
"You're not going anywhere until you finish your university degree."
Zibby hoped his mum was joking. He looked up at her; she was still smiling, but he could see no sign of jesting in her eyes.
"But why?" he asked, "that's a long time!"
"We want you to know who you are," she replied, reaching down to relieve Zibby of the bag that was now making a light red mark on his little palm. "You need to know who you are."
Zibby was puzzled. "Ma, I don't understand."
"Many blacks in America and Britain have no identity. Even now, many are looking for their roots, tracing their footsteps back to Africa. They are not accepted there, and they don't feel they belong here. They are lost."
Slowly, Zibby began to understand.
"The same applies to those who leave here too early;" she continued, "They get confused, they become unsure of who they are and where they come from. They lose themselves. I know that one day you and your brother will go abroad; you may choose to return, or your may not. When that time comes, I want you to always remember that you are Nigerian first, no matter what other nationality you may acquire. I want you to always remember who you are."
From that day on, every time the strong desire came upon him to spread his wings and fly, every time he heard of another friend going on an international holiday, every time they drove a friend or family member to the airport, Zibby would remember his mother's words. He would smile quietly to himself, humming a happy tune, one thought etched in the forefront of his mind.
My time will come.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
The Welcome
September 2003
It doesn't look very different. Zibby thoughfully examined the passing landscape as he and Uncle Nobu cruised towards the latter's North London home, Nobu's red Mercedes gleaming in the evening sun. The streets looked strangely familiar. He had of course seen a lot of London already, thanks to the twin wonders of digital television and the internet, so he was not suprised by the absence of American-style skyscrapers. Still, the streets looked suprisingly similar to the better parts of Lagos, and he had to continually remind himself that he was in a different country.
He and Uncle Nobu chatted all the way from the airport, as calm, soothing 90's tunes wafted out from the radio. Zibby made a mental note to check out that radio station again. So far they had not played a single song he didn't like!
Before long, they were pulling up to the house on Balthazar Lane. Zibby was brimming with excitement. As the door opened, Uncle Nobu called out that they were home, and out rushed the girls. Zibby quickly scanned the room for the only one he had met before, but she was not there. It was his three younger cousins, and they were meeting for the first time!
"Hello!" said Nikki cheerfully, as she came forward to give him a quick hug. She was his Uncle's third child, and the second oldest of those present. The others followed suite in rapid succession.
"Hello!" Zibby replied, beaming. He was not sure what to expect, and was glad for the warm welcome. "It's great to finally meet you all!"
"Oh my God, have you lived in America?!" asked Nikki. Zibby rolled his eyes and smiled. "No, I haven't" he said. "Lived in Lagos all my life!" "But you sound American!" she insisted. Zibby shrugged his shoulders and smiled again.
Just then, his aunt Ify stepped out from the kitchen. "Zibby, you're welcome" she said. Zibby looked into her eyes and felt suddenly uneasy. He couldn't place his finger on it, and perhaps it was his imagination. But it just seemed as if Aunt Ify did not feel quite as warmly towards him as she was letting on. As he scanned the faces of his 3 cousins, he slowly saw the same look creep in their eyes, and he began to worry.
Shrugging off his over-active imagination, he allowed them to take his things as he was ushered to the living room. The 3 sisters promptly returned to whatever it was they had been doing and Zibby was left to chat for a while with Auny Nikki and Uncle Nobu. It was really strange. He could sense the genuine warmth from his Uncle, but Aunty Nikki seemed to smile with her lips but shoot daggers with her eyes. Slowly but surely, Zibby began to feel homesick.
"Roooar!" Little Chuki ran down from wherever he had been playing and burst like a tornado into the living room. "Do you know who this is?" asked Uncle Nobu. "Yup!" said Chuki. "It's Zibby!" His five-year-old gap toothed smile was adorable! Zibby ruffled his hair with his standard greeting for little tornadoes. "Hello, young man!" Chuki grinned even wider. "Mum, dad, can I show Zibby around?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Zibby by the arm and proceeded to drag Zibby him round the 5 - bedroom house, giving him the grand tour.
By the end of it all, Chuki looked up at Zibby and asked "So, are you my big brother now?"
Zibby smiled. Perhaps his initial misgivings were misplaced after all. He was still in this happy mood when cousin Ama came in from work. Ama had spent some time with Zibby and his folks in Lagos, almost 10 years earlier. They had all got on pretty well at the time, but had not seen or spoken since then.
As Ama's eyes met his, she shrieked, "Zibby!" and ran over to meet him. She hugged him tightly as Zibby laughed. "Ama!" he said, "Wow, it's been forever!"
"I know!" she said. "I'm so glad you're here." She didn't let go. And then she broke down. Slowly, then violently her body shook with sobs as she clung to Zibby tightly and cried. "I'm so glad you're here" she repeated.
Zibby was touched, but slightly puzzled. "It's great to be here" he said, albeit a little awkwardly. After a while, Ama composed herself and went upstairs to change.
It would not be long before Zibby would fully understand the reason for her tears.
It doesn't look very different. Zibby thoughfully examined the passing landscape as he and Uncle Nobu cruised towards the latter's North London home, Nobu's red Mercedes gleaming in the evening sun. The streets looked strangely familiar. He had of course seen a lot of London already, thanks to the twin wonders of digital television and the internet, so he was not suprised by the absence of American-style skyscrapers. Still, the streets looked suprisingly similar to the better parts of Lagos, and he had to continually remind himself that he was in a different country.
He and Uncle Nobu chatted all the way from the airport, as calm, soothing 90's tunes wafted out from the radio. Zibby made a mental note to check out that radio station again. So far they had not played a single song he didn't like!
Before long, they were pulling up to the house on Balthazar Lane. Zibby was brimming with excitement. As the door opened, Uncle Nobu called out that they were home, and out rushed the girls. Zibby quickly scanned the room for the only one he had met before, but she was not there. It was his three younger cousins, and they were meeting for the first time!
"Hello!" said Nikki cheerfully, as she came forward to give him a quick hug. She was his Uncle's third child, and the second oldest of those present. The others followed suite in rapid succession.
"Hello!" Zibby replied, beaming. He was not sure what to expect, and was glad for the warm welcome. "It's great to finally meet you all!"
"Oh my God, have you lived in America?!" asked Nikki. Zibby rolled his eyes and smiled. "No, I haven't" he said. "Lived in Lagos all my life!" "But you sound American!" she insisted. Zibby shrugged his shoulders and smiled again.
Just then, his aunt Ify stepped out from the kitchen. "Zibby, you're welcome" she said. Zibby looked into her eyes and felt suddenly uneasy. He couldn't place his finger on it, and perhaps it was his imagination. But it just seemed as if Aunt Ify did not feel quite as warmly towards him as she was letting on. As he scanned the faces of his 3 cousins, he slowly saw the same look creep in their eyes, and he began to worry.
Shrugging off his over-active imagination, he allowed them to take his things as he was ushered to the living room. The 3 sisters promptly returned to whatever it was they had been doing and Zibby was left to chat for a while with Auny Nikki and Uncle Nobu. It was really strange. He could sense the genuine warmth from his Uncle, but Aunty Nikki seemed to smile with her lips but shoot daggers with her eyes. Slowly but surely, Zibby began to feel homesick.
"Roooar!" Little Chuki ran down from wherever he had been playing and burst like a tornado into the living room. "Do you know who this is?" asked Uncle Nobu. "Yup!" said Chuki. "It's Zibby!" His five-year-old gap toothed smile was adorable! Zibby ruffled his hair with his standard greeting for little tornadoes. "Hello, young man!" Chuki grinned even wider. "Mum, dad, can I show Zibby around?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Zibby by the arm and proceeded to drag Zibby him round the 5 - bedroom house, giving him the grand tour.
By the end of it all, Chuki looked up at Zibby and asked "So, are you my big brother now?"
Zibby smiled. Perhaps his initial misgivings were misplaced after all. He was still in this happy mood when cousin Ama came in from work. Ama had spent some time with Zibby and his folks in Lagos, almost 10 years earlier. They had all got on pretty well at the time, but had not seen or spoken since then.
As Ama's eyes met his, she shrieked, "Zibby!" and ran over to meet him. She hugged him tightly as Zibby laughed. "Ama!" he said, "Wow, it's been forever!"
"I know!" she said. "I'm so glad you're here." She didn't let go. And then she broke down. Slowly, then violently her body shook with sobs as she clung to Zibby tightly and cried. "I'm so glad you're here" she repeated.
Zibby was touched, but slightly puzzled. "It's great to be here" he said, albeit a little awkwardly. After a while, Ama composed herself and went upstairs to change.
It would not be long before Zibby would fully understand the reason for her tears.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Liar Liar
1985 - 5/6 years old
"Were you born in America?" Raphael asked Zibby, as they played on the clean white sand of their catholic school playground. Zibby's brow furrowed. He'd heard this too many times for his liking.
"No." he curtly replied.
"Liar!" you were born in America! Raphael persisted. Zibby sighed and ran over to the slides. Perhaps he'd try to slide down while standing up this time...
"Why are you lying, now?" Raphael wasn't going to let this one go.
"I'm not lying. I wasn't born in America!" Zibby insisted.
"Then why do you speak like an American?"
Zibby shrugged his shoulders, in the same way he would for many years to come. You see, Zibby's keen ear and zeal for learning had seen him devote himself to the mastery of the English Language. The real shame of it was that he did this to the total detriment of every other language including his mother-tongue, Igbo. Not that this was all his fault, of course. After all, even when his parents argued, they argued in English! His Igbo was restricted to such basic words as bia (come), efere (plate), and mmiri (water).
By the time his parents would realize their mistake, it would be too late. On occasions, Zibby's mum would abruptly cease from speaking English and communicate with him in whole paragraphs of Igbo. He would furrow his brow in what was to become his trademark scowl and curtly say, in English, "Please stop speaking that nonsense to me." Eventually, she did.
So where did the "American" accent come from? It wasn't really American, of course. Just different. Later in life Zibby would explain it to himself this way: it was a mix of pronunciations and intonations gleaned from watching hours and hours of British and American television. This was coupled with constant direction from his parents, which Zibby was all too eager to imbibe.
"Don't say 'dis', say 'this'."
"Don't drop the 'h'. It's your 'hand', not your 'and'!"
Through it all, Zibby was vaguely aware that not everyone spoke as he was learning to speak. However, he wasn't too interested in what others were saying. He only wanted to know, "what's the 'right way' to say it?"
Over time Zibby began to speak in a curious blend of Received Pronunciation (otherwise known as 'the Queen's English' mixed with a healthy dose of American vowels and phrases and garnished with a sprinkling of Yoruba intonations. To the young children without a keen discernment for accents, he spoke like an American.
By the second year of school, Zibby's childhood conversations would proceed more like this:
"Zibby, were you born in America?"
"No"
"Liar! So why do you speak like that? You were, weren't you?"
(sigh) "Yes. Let's go to the slides."
"Were you born in America?" Raphael asked Zibby, as they played on the clean white sand of their catholic school playground. Zibby's brow furrowed. He'd heard this too many times for his liking.
"No." he curtly replied.
"Liar!" you were born in America! Raphael persisted. Zibby sighed and ran over to the slides. Perhaps he'd try to slide down while standing up this time...
"Why are you lying, now?" Raphael wasn't going to let this one go.
"I'm not lying. I wasn't born in America!" Zibby insisted.
"Then why do you speak like an American?"
Zibby shrugged his shoulders, in the same way he would for many years to come. You see, Zibby's keen ear and zeal for learning had seen him devote himself to the mastery of the English Language. The real shame of it was that he did this to the total detriment of every other language including his mother-tongue, Igbo. Not that this was all his fault, of course. After all, even when his parents argued, they argued in English! His Igbo was restricted to such basic words as bia (come), efere (plate), and mmiri (water).
By the time his parents would realize their mistake, it would be too late. On occasions, Zibby's mum would abruptly cease from speaking English and communicate with him in whole paragraphs of Igbo. He would furrow his brow in what was to become his trademark scowl and curtly say, in English, "Please stop speaking that nonsense to me." Eventually, she did.
So where did the "American" accent come from? It wasn't really American, of course. Just different. Later in life Zibby would explain it to himself this way: it was a mix of pronunciations and intonations gleaned from watching hours and hours of British and American television. This was coupled with constant direction from his parents, which Zibby was all too eager to imbibe.
"Don't say 'dis', say 'this'."
"Don't drop the 'h'. It's your 'hand', not your 'and'!"
Through it all, Zibby was vaguely aware that not everyone spoke as he was learning to speak. However, he wasn't too interested in what others were saying. He only wanted to know, "what's the 'right way' to say it?"
Over time Zibby began to speak in a curious blend of Received Pronunciation (otherwise known as 'the Queen's English' mixed with a healthy dose of American vowels and phrases and garnished with a sprinkling of Yoruba intonations. To the young children without a keen discernment for accents, he spoke like an American.
By the second year of school, Zibby's childhood conversations would proceed more like this:
"Zibby, were you born in America?"
"No"
"Liar! So why do you speak like that? You were, weren't you?"
(sigh) "Yes. Let's go to the slides."
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Arrival
September 2003
Zibby sat impatiently in the Murtala Mohammed Airport waiting lounge. An hour earlier, he had said goodbye to his parents at the outer departure gates. The image of his mum quietly crying through her smiles remained imprinted in his mind, as did her words earlier. "Goodbye, son. Hold on to Jesus!"
At long last, he was on his way to London. Zibby had secured a place at King's College to study for a Master of Laws degree and he knew exactly what he wanted. He would work so hard that his lecturers wouldn't fail to notice him. He'd be retained by the University upon graduation as a member of staff and would thus take his place among the academic elite of the world. No, Zibby did not think his expectations were unrealistic. Far from it. Rejections from Harvard and Cambridge earlier that year had brought him down to earth with a massive thud. He knew the going would be tough but he had faith that all would be well in the end.
As the flight boarded and for its entire duration, Zibby felt a sense of excitement slowly rising in his chest. All too soon, the plane touched down at Heathrow.
"Passport please." The immigration officer stretched out his hand to recieve Zibby's passport. He probably didn't notice the beads of sweat slowly forming on the edge of his brow. Not that anything was amiss, of course. Zibby just had a nagging feeling that if anything were to go monumentally wrong, it would be now.
"Why have you come to the UK?" the officer asked. "To study" Zibby confidently replied. "What will you be studying?" Zibby restrained himself from rolling his eyes. This was the visa interview all over again! "I'll be studying for an LLM - Master of Laws, at King's College London." "Can I see your offer letter please?"
Looking back at the long queue behind him, Zibby was very grateful for his parent's advice to keep his admission documents handy. He had a mental picture of himself explaining how he did have admission documents, but they were at the bottom his yet uncollected suitcase. The picture was not pretty. "Enjoy your stay" the officer said, stamping his passport emphatically.
Next, Zibby proceeded to the medical room for his compulsory X-ray screening. There, he bumped into one of his mates from Law School! "Hey, what're you doing here?" asked the friend cheerily. "I've come for a Masters!" Zibby replied. "I'll be studying at King's! How about you?" "Same thing, but I'll be at UCL!" "Great," Zibby replied. "We should meet up sometime."
Zibby never saw him again. Thus he would learn one of the first things you learn about London. It eats your friends. They disappear down a long dark hole of "busyness" and you'll be lucky to get a phone call once a month reminding you that they're still alive. In time, Zibby too would be so eaten. But that's a tale for another day.
As he completed his medical exam and went down the escalators to retrieve his baggage, Zibby noticed that he felt considerably lighter. His briefcase! He had taken it onto the plane as hand luggage and it contained all his certificates, course-related documents and 4500 pounds being the first deposit for his fees! He was beside himself with fear and worry. It had happened. He knew it was all going too smoothly, that something would have to happen somewhere to mess everything up.
Zibby dashed back up the escalators and headed for the immigration desk. "Please! I think I've left a briefcase on the plane! Can I go back through?"
The immigration officer looked bewildered but not in the least bit sympathetic. "Once you've come through, you can't go back again."
Zibby was on the verge of tears. He quickly considered his options. The medical exam. He could not recall taking the case there, but it was worth a try. "Can I go back to the medical room?" he asked hopefully. The immigration officer looked back at him and nodded. He was off like a shot, heading straight for the medical reception desk. "Excuse me, please, I don't know if you can help me, but I think I might have forgotten a grey briefcase..."
The lady at the desk smiled and said, "Ah, yes... Jill! That briefcase you found..." Zibby's heart was pounding so hard he was sure it was audible. Another lady appeared from another room with the missing case and he almost melted with joy. "Thank you sooo much! That would've been a major problem! My entire life is in that case!" he gushed, as the ladies handed the case over to him.
Okay, he thought, that's done now. That's the drama. Everything's going to be fine now. He clutched his beloved case and headed out to get the rest of his luggage and to meet his uncle who had been patiently waiting for hours. He was in London, and he was going to enjoy himself!
Zibby sat impatiently in the Murtala Mohammed Airport waiting lounge. An hour earlier, he had said goodbye to his parents at the outer departure gates. The image of his mum quietly crying through her smiles remained imprinted in his mind, as did her words earlier. "Goodbye, son. Hold on to Jesus!"
At long last, he was on his way to London. Zibby had secured a place at King's College to study for a Master of Laws degree and he knew exactly what he wanted. He would work so hard that his lecturers wouldn't fail to notice him. He'd be retained by the University upon graduation as a member of staff and would thus take his place among the academic elite of the world. No, Zibby did not think his expectations were unrealistic. Far from it. Rejections from Harvard and Cambridge earlier that year had brought him down to earth with a massive thud. He knew the going would be tough but he had faith that all would be well in the end.
As the flight boarded and for its entire duration, Zibby felt a sense of excitement slowly rising in his chest. All too soon, the plane touched down at Heathrow.
"Passport please." The immigration officer stretched out his hand to recieve Zibby's passport. He probably didn't notice the beads of sweat slowly forming on the edge of his brow. Not that anything was amiss, of course. Zibby just had a nagging feeling that if anything were to go monumentally wrong, it would be now.
"Why have you come to the UK?" the officer asked. "To study" Zibby confidently replied. "What will you be studying?" Zibby restrained himself from rolling his eyes. This was the visa interview all over again! "I'll be studying for an LLM - Master of Laws, at King's College London." "Can I see your offer letter please?"
Looking back at the long queue behind him, Zibby was very grateful for his parent's advice to keep his admission documents handy. He had a mental picture of himself explaining how he did have admission documents, but they were at the bottom his yet uncollected suitcase. The picture was not pretty. "Enjoy your stay" the officer said, stamping his passport emphatically.
Next, Zibby proceeded to the medical room for his compulsory X-ray screening. There, he bumped into one of his mates from Law School! "Hey, what're you doing here?" asked the friend cheerily. "I've come for a Masters!" Zibby replied. "I'll be studying at King's! How about you?" "Same thing, but I'll be at UCL!" "Great," Zibby replied. "We should meet up sometime."
Zibby never saw him again. Thus he would learn one of the first things you learn about London. It eats your friends. They disappear down a long dark hole of "busyness" and you'll be lucky to get a phone call once a month reminding you that they're still alive. In time, Zibby too would be so eaten. But that's a tale for another day.
As he completed his medical exam and went down the escalators to retrieve his baggage, Zibby noticed that he felt considerably lighter. His briefcase! He had taken it onto the plane as hand luggage and it contained all his certificates, course-related documents and 4500 pounds being the first deposit for his fees! He was beside himself with fear and worry. It had happened. He knew it was all going too smoothly, that something would have to happen somewhere to mess everything up.
Zibby dashed back up the escalators and headed for the immigration desk. "Please! I think I've left a briefcase on the plane! Can I go back through?"
The immigration officer looked bewildered but not in the least bit sympathetic. "Once you've come through, you can't go back again."
Zibby was on the verge of tears. He quickly considered his options. The medical exam. He could not recall taking the case there, but it was worth a try. "Can I go back to the medical room?" he asked hopefully. The immigration officer looked back at him and nodded. He was off like a shot, heading straight for the medical reception desk. "Excuse me, please, I don't know if you can help me, but I think I might have forgotten a grey briefcase..."
The lady at the desk smiled and said, "Ah, yes... Jill! That briefcase you found..." Zibby's heart was pounding so hard he was sure it was audible. Another lady appeared from another room with the missing case and he almost melted with joy. "Thank you sooo much! That would've been a major problem! My entire life is in that case!" he gushed, as the ladies handed the case over to him.
Okay, he thought, that's done now. That's the drama. Everything's going to be fine now. He clutched his beloved case and headed out to get the rest of his luggage and to meet his uncle who had been patiently waiting for hours. He was in London, and he was going to enjoy himself!
Friday, 1 May 2009
Tell me about London
1985
The five-year old sat cross-legged at his mother's feet. He liked to sit there. He loved listening to her stories, especially in candlelight, in the regular absence of electric power. NEPA, they called it then - National Electric Power Authority, though the locals preferred Never Expect Power Always.
The five-year old sat cross-legged at his mother's feet. He liked to sit there. He loved listening to her stories, especially in candlelight, in the regular absence of electric power. NEPA, they called it then - National Electric Power Authority, though the locals preferred Never Expect Power Always.
Anyway, we stray from our main subject. Little Zibby loved sitting at his mummy's feet. She would tell stories of the tortoise and the hare, of the wicked stepmother and magical rivers, greedy children and wise old men. Her versions of stories passed down from generation to generation. But Zibby liked one story above others. "Tell me about London" he would say. "Mamma, tell me about London".
You see, Zibby's parents had spent 13 years in London before returning to Lagos in the late 70's. His elder brother had been born there, but Zibby missed out on the priviledge of dual nationality by one month. Somehow or other, he grew up with a facination about the city he had never known. He would dream about the snow, about his brother being played with by the facinated white neighbourhood kids, about the child minder whose name he had heard innumerable times, about the little house on Stanlake Road, the huge afros and bell-bottomed trousers. His "memories" of London were comprised of his mother's stories and the extensive collection of pictures sitting in the shelf under the television. As the stories were repeated over several nights and several months and years, he would imagine himself there, a happy dream which filled him with warmth and simple child-like happiness.
Were the seeds for his eventual relocation sowed during those tropical evening story sessions? Perhaps. What Zibby's young head could not have known was that the reality of London differed greatly from the city of his infantile dreams.
Were the seeds for his eventual relocation sowed during those tropical evening story sessions? Perhaps. What Zibby's young head could not have known was that the reality of London differed greatly from the city of his infantile dreams.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
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At animmigrantsdiary.blogspot.com, we recognize that privacy of your personal information is important. Below is information on what types of personal information we receive and collect when you use and visit animmigrantsdiary.blogspot.com, and how we safeguard your information. We will never sell your personal information to third parties.
Log Files
As with most other websites, we collect and use the data contained in log files. The information in the log files include your IP (internet protocol) address, your ISP (internet service provider, such as AOL), the browser you used to visit our site (such as Internet Explorer or Firefox), the time you visited our site and which pages you visited throughout our site.
Cookies and Web Beacons
We do use cookies to store information, such as your personal preferences when you visit our site. This could include only showing you a popup once in your visit, or the ability to login to some of our features, such as forums.
We also use third party advertisements on animmigrantsdiary.blogspot.com to support our site. Some of these advertisers may use technology such as cookies and web beacons when they advertise on our site, which will also send these advertisers (such as Google through the Google AdSense program) information including your IP address, your ISP , the browser you used to visit our site, and in some cases, whether you have Flash installed. This is generally used for geotargeting purposes (showing New York real estate ads to someone in New York, for example) or showing certain ads based on specific sites visited (such as showing cooking ads to someone who frequents cooking sites).
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Deleting cookies does not mean you are permanently opted out of any advertising program. Unless you have settings that disallow cookies, the next time you visit a site running the advertisements, a new cookie will be added.
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